


Judged By a Jury of Your Peers

by emmaliza



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst and Porn, BDSM, Denial, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02e05 Pressure Point, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Rough Sex, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25725232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: "Please, Avon. Tell me how I was wrong."
Relationships: Kerr Avon/Roj Blake
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	Judged By a Jury of Your Peers

"Avon."

Blake has been drinking. Avon can smell it on him. It's very out of character; for all his pretense of warmth and comfort Blake is even more careful to keep control of himself than Avon is, but he supposes these are unusual circumstances. "What do you want, Blake?" If he has found another suicide mission to send them on already...

Slumped heavily against Avon's bedroom doorway, Blake shakes his head, vague and confused. "I need you... I need to... Avon." When he staggers forward he lands atop Avon's body with a thud. Overwhelmed by his mass, Avon has no choice but to step backwards, bringing Blake into the room with him. Blake clings to his leather tunic, like he did down there in the forbidden zone. "I was wrong, Avon," he moans miserably against Avon's chest. "Why didn't you tell me I was wrong?"

Avon swallows the lump in his throat. "I did try." _Did I though?_ He made his usual snide remarks, of course, that Blake was lying to them all and leading them to certain death, but he didn't seriously protest, even when it was clear Blake's plan had gone badly wrong. He wanted Blake to succeed - he had his own reasons of course, he was angling for control of the Liberator, but even so... He could simply have refused to help, and then Blake would be stuck, with no other way of getting past the computerised security systems. Then Gan would still be alive.

It's not as if he and Gan were particularly close. Still, having lived together as long as they did, it's hard not to feel some sense of loss - and anger.

"You wouldn't listen. You'd never listen, no matter what I said. You can't blame your mistakes on me," he hisses in Blake's ear. The words go through him like a tremor; for a moment Avon could swear he heard him whimper. Blake's legs go weak underneath him; instinctively Avon puts his arms out to catch him, but he stops himself at the last moment.

Blake ends up on his knees before him, looking up with big brown eyes wide and wet with tears. "Please, Avon. Tell me how I was wrong." Avon stops dead. He's never heard Blake beg for anything before. He must be very drunk. It should be tempting to take advantage of the situation, to break Blake's nose in, to get some real vengeance for poor, lost, lamented Gan - it should be, but it isn't.

"I wouldn't know where to start," he laughs bitterly in Blake's face. When Blake keeps staring at him like that, Avon snarls, winding his hand through Blake's dark curls and yanking _hard_. "I have no interest in indulging your masochistic fantasies."

Blake moans lowly as the pain goes through him. His eyes slide shut. "You used us. You've been using us all along. Gan died for you today, but it could have been any of us. It will be soon enough, I'm sure." He spits on Blake's face, hoping that will obscure how loathe he is to really hurt him.

But Blake just lets him do it. Saliva trails sickeningly down his cheek and he doesn't even move to wipe it away. The submission of it is repulsive, from Blake, who is usually so strong, so brave, so defiant toward everything. Avon kicks at him in frustration. "Get on the bed."

Eyes popping back open, Blake is clearly surprised by the order. Still, he moves as instructed, landing face down against Avon's sheets. Avon grabs him by the hips and rolls him back over.

Blake does make a small noise of protest when Avon kisses him roughly; this, presumably, isn't what he thought he was giving himself over for. Still, he gives in to it easily, helping assuage any guilt Avon might feel over taking advantage of him. If Blake is using him, why shouldn't he do the same? That sort of crude, natural justice is the exact sort Blake likes best.

"I'm going to fuck you," he murmurs against Blake's lips, reaching down to give his cock a possessive squeeze. "If I'm going to die for you I should at least get something for my troubles."

Blake spreads his legs and lets Avon pull his trousers off quickly. He doesn't bother with the rest. He fumbles for the bottle of lubricant he keeps in his bedside drawer, and Blake whimpers when he presses one slick finger against the rim of his hole. "Avon, you don't have to--" He turns pink with embarrassment. "I mean. I can take it."

Avon raises his eyebrows at him. "I'm not making this easy for you by making sure you don't enjoy it," he says. "Now shut up."

Blake does so, apart from a shallow gasp when Avon pushes one finger all the way inside him. Avon kisses it from his lips. He is so hot and so tight that Avon wonders whether he's ever done this before - and if he has, if he's done it at all recently; indeed if he's been able to give his body to anyone since the Federation raped his mind. He flinches and resolves to think no more about it.

He works Blake open slowly, in stages, not adding a second finger until Blake is squirming against the first. "Avon..." Blake drawls under his breath, eyes closed, trembling.

Blake makes a noise when Avon pushes inside him - of pleasure, of pain, of shock, who can say? Avon grips his forearms strongly. "Shh," he whispers, barely biting back the _it's alright, I've got you_ that threatens to slip from his lips.

This is meant to be a punishment, that is what Blake asked him for, and so Avon should just fuck him hard and be done with it. But instead, he can't help being gentle, sinking gradually into Blake inch by inch, watching in fascination as his mouth drops open in pleasure. He tells himself that's a more effective punishment: to deny him what he wants, to make him feel good when he's just looking to wallow in his misery.

Blake's arms wrap around his back, clinging to him again, and Avon groans as he quickens his pace, sheathing himself entirely inside Blake and making him gasp. He braces his arms either side of Blake's head, making sure they don't get close enough that he can do something foolish like kiss his hair.

High on grief and anger Avon is tightly strung, and so of course he finds himself creeping toward the edge much closer than he would otherwise. Having drunk as much as he has, Blake will surely find it much more difficult to come, and so Avon reaches down to take his cock in hand, lest he be subject to any complaints about his stamina. "Avon," Blake gasps as Avon strokes him firmly, fat prick warm and twitching in his palm. "Avon, I--"

He comes messily, in a splatter all over the red leather Avon didn't bother to remove. Blake's pleasure pushes him over the edge; swallowed whole in Blake he moans and feels his essence torn from him.

When it's over he collapses against Blake's neck, breathing in the smell of him, sweat and tears and whiskey all blending together. Blake still clings to his body. "I'm sorry."

In the post-coital, liminal moment, Avon hears the words in his head a moment before he says them: _I know. It's alright. I forgive you. I love you._

Hurriedly he pushes himself away, drawing into a ball on the other side of the bed. No, he can't say that. "Did that make you feel better?" he asks, slipping into his usual cold tone. "Did you find your catharsis, feel you had been adequately punished, so you can do the exact same thing again?" He turns to see Blake lying on his side, flinching at the words, looking a good deal more sober. "I'm sure Gan would be pleased to see how quickly you've moved on."

Blake averts his eyes, saying nothing, but apparently now sensible enough to know that he can't trust Avon with any tears that might fall. Good. "You can go now," Avon dismisses him.

"Fine. I'll go." Blake hops out of bed swallowing hard, grabbing his trousers. Avon watches as he laces them up. "Avon, I..."

But he doesn't finish that sentence, he just walks out. When he's gone Avon buries his head in his hands.

_I must leave him,_ he thinks. _Or else he'll be the death of me._


End file.
